seeing Simson, speaking to some one else. His voice took a tone of
expostulation:--

"Is this right to come here? Your mother's gone with your name on her
lips. Do you think she would ever close her door on her own lad? Do ye
think the Lord will close the door, ye faint-hearted creature? No!--I
forbid ye! I forbid ye!" cried the old man. The sobbing voice had begun
to resume its cries. He made a step forward, calling out the last words
in a voice of command. "I forbid ye! Cry out no more to man. Go home, ye
wandering spirit! go home! Do you hear me?--me that christened ye, that
have struggled with ye, that have wrestled for ye with the Lord!" Here
the loud tones of his voice sank into tenderness. "And her too, poor
woman! poor woman! her you are calling upon. She's not here. You'll find
her with the Lord. Go there and seek her, not here. Do you hear me, lad?
go after her there. He'll let you in, though it's late. Man, take heart!
if you will lie and sob and greet, let it be at heaven's gate, and not
your poor mother's ruined door."

He stopped to get his breath; and the voice had stopped, not as it had
done before, when its time was exhausted and all its repetitions said,
but with a sobbing catch in the breath as if overruled. Then the
minister spoke again, "Are you hearing me, Will? Oh, laddie, you've liked
the beggarly elements all your days. Be done with them now. Go home to
the Father--the Father! Are you hearing me?" Here the old man sank down
upon his knees, his face raised upwards, his hands held up with a tremble
in them, all white in the light in the midst of the darkness. I resisted
as long as I could, though I cannot tell why; then I, too, dropped upon
my knees. Simson all the time stood in the door-way, with an expression
in his face such as words could not tell, his under lip dropped, his eyes
wild, staring. It seemed to be to him, that image of blank ignorance and